


E is for Embers

by chileancarmenere



Series: Alistair Alphabet [5]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:21:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chileancarmenere/pseuds/chileancarmenere





	E is for Embers

In the Chantry, they liked making the recruits get up particularly early. Usually before sunrise. Alistair had always suspected that it was because the older templars didn’t want to prepare the Chantry for morning prayers. The Revered Mother insisted it was to teach them self-discipline. All it really taught him was to loathe the Revered Mother.

It did have one unexpected side effect. Even now, years after he left the Chantry, Alistair wakes up early, before the sun rises. As soon as Kaillian figured that out, she stuck him on the last watch; the one from the early hours of the morning to sunrise.

He’s okay with it.

It gives him time to think. It gives him time to watch the qunari at his early morning exercises, time to worry about the assassin that Kaillian thought she just _had_ to bring along, time to have Sandal enchant his sword with the rune he found the other day, and time to _definitely not even think at all_ about Kaillilan, wrapped up warm in her blankets in her tent.

He watches the embers of the fire dying down, the fire that they keep alive all night through their various watches. Embers are really fascinating things. The coals glow slightly from the bottom, spiderweb-thin orange lines running up their sides. He has seen rubies in the more ornate flame amulets at the Chantry, but somehow, embers are prettier. Art is an imitation of the beauty of life, he decides.

“Alistair?” He jumps, his foot shooting out for balance, and the embers that he thought were so pretty a moment ago scorch his boot. “Ow!”

“Sorry!” It’s Kaillian, crawling out of her tent. “So sorry! Are you okay?”

He strips the boot off, cursing under his breath. There’s a neat hole burned in it. “Well, I’m going to get a lot more rocks in my boots,” he says with an attempt at flippancy.

“Sorry,” she repeats. She says sorry a lot, he realizes. Probably a side effect of being brought up in the alienage. She motions for the boot, and he hands it over. “I might be able to stitch some leather over the hole. I wonder if any of our mages have clothes-fixing spells.”

“Morrigan doesn’t wear enough of them to worry about it.”

She snorts. “Probably not.” Her pack is sitting up against her tent, and she fetches it, rummaging through for her sewing kit.

“I can sew it myself,” he objects. He doesn’t want her worrying and fussing over him - she has a lot on her mind already.

“Have you ever sewn leather?”

“No.”

“It’s different from sewing with wool or linen. You need a thicker needle, and a protective glove.” She bends over the boot, and he is embarrassed that they probably stink from squelching through corruption and the fact that he rarely gets a chance to wash his socks.

The sun is just rising, and the golden light glints off her hair, picking out reddish highlights that he’s never noticed before. “Your hair…”

“What about it?”

“It’s red. I never saw that. Like embers.” As soon as the word is out of his mouth, he wants to slap himself in the face. Really? Like _embers_? Weren’t there a million and a half more flattering things he could have compared her too than hot coals?

Her mouth is open, staring at him in surprise, then her bow-shaped lips curve into a smile. “I…um…thank you, Alistair.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” he mumbles through his hands. “Unflattering comparisons and failed pick-up lines.”


End file.
